Habitué to A New Persona Grata
by Kiagura Misashi
Summary: Recalling that day- I was handed over into the fragile arms of an old lady with sores and freckles, and a woman, a cliff below us, calling out to me...
1. Introduction: Cloud Strife

1831. Recalling that day- I was handed over into the fragile arms of an old lady with sores and freckles, and a woman, a cliff below us, calling out to me- remained lodged in between the two halves of my brain like a burning headache. The long black strands of her hair whipped from side to side, getting in the way of her teary eyes. Her arms outstretched, her fingers curling and then releasing, and she was begging with her eyes. From above, the gods frowned down with tears of dissatisfaction and roared with sparks of rage. I curled my fingers into the old woman's turban and yanked at her hair.

I cried for her, calling her _Mama._

The old woman grabbed my hands and she hugged me close to her body by the small of my back. A man, mowing through the crowd, hollered at the old woman. He grabbed her and tossed her into a wagon stuffed with people. She covered my head with a cap and I buried my face in the crook of her shoulder and wailed.

This old woman, Dutchess; I stuck to her like she was my life. She was a strong woman, despite her crooked back and thin bones, and she was my big strong tree. She led us through mountain passes men feared, and she fought through jungles infested with dangers. Her head never bowed when we walked through thick masses, and she kept to herself more than a woman should. She was Dutchess, the woman to rival god himself.

Sadly, throughout the impossible years, I saw her end slip through my fingers. The small cup I held for her, she sipped from. The bitter, starchy texture threw her into a fit of coughs. She had the opportunity to choke out some last words, and I grabbed onto them like they were tangible, and stored them away.

I reported her death and the authorities came and lugged her body to the back of an old truck. They drenched our belongings and set our tiny cabin aflame.

"It is cursed with the death of an immigrant."

With the looks they gave me, and their dark hair and brown eyes, I could tell they were not fond of the blue eyes and blond hair. I was left there in the ashes of my home, and was patient for the fire to cool down before I went scouting for any remains. I found a couple of not-completely-destroyed objects; Dutchess' golden compass, a spoon, and a couple of silver pieces sandwiched in between my mattress and the charred floor.

Finding a replacement home for the next thirty days was reduced to huddling in sewage-filled alleys, and I begged my way into a factory. I worked from before the sun rose to after the midnight bell toned. The air was putrid with residue particles and I often cut myself on the machines, but the pay kept my stomach full.

I had bought myself a rent in a one room apartment, and I climbed from there. I moved to the railroads, and the hours were less and the pay was more, and the dangers followed. I blended in with the sea of blond hair and blue eyes, and the men atop the horses glowered at us with dark eyes. No one ever spoke, just like in the factory. Anyone who rested outside of work time was whipped awake, and sent back to work.

Again, I switched jobs. An old man took me in after eyeing me from a distance for a good year, and he sent me into a field of education. He said he would pay for everything, as long as I got an education. And I did. I graduated and went into Business and Law.

On the day of my celebration, he approached me and grabbed my elbow. "For the longest of times, the thought of seeing you before stabbed me, I finally recognized you! You are the son of Dutchess, right?"

"I _was_ her son." I replied.

My words clicked and he turned solemn, "I am sorry," He sighed, "I knew her since we were young, and I was infatuated with her- still am!- but she moved on from me. She got herself married and had a kid, a beautiful baby girl. She came to me smiling, and all I could do was act like a fool. I don't remember what happened after that, but just a couple years ago, I saw her again, and you were with her! Just a little boy at the time, but I was too nervous to approach her." He laughed dryly and then cleared his throat, "I am willing to take you in, the son of a long lost friend. How 'bout it, would you be the heir of Strife Law?"

This man was a friend of Dutchess, and that sealed the deal. I couldn't track the times after that meeting, but I found myself sitting in luxury. I was on my own; Mr. Strife passed away and handed his will to me, and the business was basically running itself.

The luxury was getting boring, and the daily walks on the city streets were becoming filthier and more rotten with the working class littering wherever they stepped.

I passed by a niche in between Sally's Burgers and a factory, and I heard something I thought I would never forget. High pitched whining noises drawled out with something solid making some sort of gross contact with something else that had to be wet or squishy. I heard crunching noises and a sickening crack before a person, (I was assuming it was), shrieked in some sort of jubilant glee. It was beyond my, or any human's ability to describe with words or gestures, or to even reenact the sounds.

I stepped backwards and peered into the sheathed obscurity, and I squinted. A small- _er_- something, was crouched over the decaying, clothed body of a man. The thing had its fingers in the man's right eye socket, and it slowly applied pressure. I saw its knuckles bend before the ball _popped_ out of its socket. The crouched over thing whined before leaning forward and attaching its mouth to the man's face and it hollowed its cheeks before clamping down and slowly pulling its head back. The string of tissue attaching the ball to its owner stretched, and would not give up.

I watched from around the wall as the thing pulled out a piece of glass shrapnel from its angle in the dirt, and it cut the eye free. My stomach lurched forward and the distant sound of the rotting eye being chewed put thoughts into my head. I jumped without thinking and grabbed the shoulder of whatever was committing such an act, and I smacked away the glass.

"What is wrong with you?!" I shouted.

The thing released a shrill scream and my blood froze in my veins and my heart dropped to my stomach, and it spun around and raised its hands to strike. We both froze when our eyes met. His blue eyes matched my blue eyes, and from under the grime I saw the little rays of sunlight sprouting from his skull. The dirt was caked on his face and lined his eyes. My fingers reached up and chipped away some of the mud and I gasped.

I followed the hideous line from the bottom of his cheek to below his left brow, and that blank eye blinked at me.

The sudden shriek of, "Ack!-Aieee!" smacked me hard and the creature, which I had now determined was a _boy,_ pushed me and I landed on my rear.

His cries and wails echoed and I scrambled from the ground and booked it back to my new home. Before the door man could question my urgencies, I ran to the stairs and zipped to my apartment and locked the myself inside. I collapsed at the door and cradled my heart in my hands and let loose the pants that burned my lungs.

The look in that boy's eyes, his cries, it all scared me. The floral walls melted and the fringes from the carpet stretched and snaked their way up my fingers. My wrists were wrapped and constricted to the floor, and my legs felt heavy like lead bricks. The lights from above exploded and rained sparks onto the carpet and fed them to a roaring flame.

I coughed and the flames licked at my fingers, and I felt suffocated in the clothes on my body. I twitched and squirmed against my restrictions, and felt the dry air burn my eyes. The ashes billowed and kissed against my cheek.

My eyes sprung open and every muscle in my body violently threw itself into alert. My foot kicked the door and I instantly stood up and looked around. The colors blurred and whipped together and I smacked my hand against the nearest wall and put my face flat against the wall paper. I told myself, _breathe, in, out, breathe, _before I peaked open an eye and looked out of my peripheral.

There was no scorched carpet and the furniture- all in complete polished pieces- barely looked touched. I looked to the wall lamps and saw them unused and not shattered, and the ruffled indent of my body sprawled on the floor in front of the door, remained. The street lamps glowed from the windows and the moon was in full disk form from above the curtains.

I had determined I had a long day and I needed rest, and more than likely, a bath and some food. I rinsed off my body and dressed in loose night clothes, and the feeling of sleep-wanting felt delicious under my skin. I crawled under my covers and slipped my fingers under the silk of my pillows, and my thumb lightly caressed the engraving of Dutchess' compass. Its smooth and polished gold surface soothed me, and I felt like I could breathe again.

I was awake just as the sun peaked over the city buildings, and I found my mind wondering to the dirty boy scurrying in alleys like a common rat. I could recall every detail of him; from his oily, garbage and feces caked hair, to his over grown nails with layers of dirt stuffed under them. The only certainty of his complexion that I could recall that was not dirty, were his eyes. Even the one that was scarred hideously; that special pair was innocent. Despite the sinful act I witness, that man was long after dead before that boy found him.

For days on end, each and every hour I spent trying to keep myself busy, those eyes clouded every paper I read and every person's face looked dirty. On the fifth night, I had a dream. I dreamt of Dutchess, which was not unnatural, and she looked like she was angry. I reached forward, desperate, and cradled her delicate fingers in my palms. She snatched her hand away and frowned before grabbing my hand. Even in my dreams, she was as strong as ever. My head jerked forward with my body, and she flattened my palm before smacking something into it.

The force had me springing from my bed and tumbling onto the floor. I opened my eyes to see my hands tightly, bone-crushingly, cradling something to my chest. It was the silver spoon I recovered from the fire. It sparkled against the morning sun with its grape vine engraving and the word "Grotto" curved down the handle.

What was I supposed to do with it? It was a misconception; the word "Grotto" was the Greek base for the word "Grotesque". The word meant hideous and horrible, in its literal definition. For such a word to be carved on such a , nonetheless, beautiful piece of silver with the most precise of details. The grapes were tinged with shinning gold, and the curves were so sharp, you felt marred just by gazing at it.

It was a true contradiction.

The only image that appeared like a ghost in the reflection of the polished surface of the curvature; those blue eyes. Upturned, blue eyes mirror mine, and I felt overtaken while I jolted from the floor and threw on whatever clothes I could and grabbed my coat before running out of the door.

I felt silly running up and down the streets with a spoon in my hand, looking for a rat boy, but it had to be done. I found him in that same niche, with the same man. That man was missing his lungs, kidneys, and it looked like his heart too. His arms and legs were messily slashed open and emptied of the bones and muscles, and the bones remained in a pile in the corner.

The tiny fingers clawed at the man's left cheek and eye lids, and I craned my neck forward to see what he was doing. Past the darkness, I could see that the man's left eye was sunken in his socket. It looked like he attempted to get it out, but the glass was too sharp to get it out as a whole. Cuts and chunks of skin around his face where missing, and the edges of skull around his eye looked chipped. This boy was desperate to get that eye out.

A tiny whine ripped from his throat and he slumped backwards, looking dejected.

I had no evidence of any shed of sense when I stepped forward and pulled the spoon from my pocket. The boy noticed me and whipped his head around, and stared from the ground, unmoving. Slowly and carefully, I inched forward. I crouched down to his level and held the man's face steady. I felt the boy's eyes shift from me, the spoon, and then the man.

I reached forward with the tip of the spoon at the edge of the bone, and I gently eased it into the socket. The horrid smell from the decay made my stomach lurch and this boy's years of collection made me want to die and disintegrate into the dirt. He leaned forward, and put his filthy fingers on my arm. I dug with the spoon and maneuvered my way around the maggots to the back of the rotted ball.

I wedge the string of tissue between the edge of the spoon and the wall of the skull and wiggled it around before I felt the eye loosen, and rolled it out of the socket.

There was a long string of dead silence; I looked at him and he looked at me. But no movement. His breathing ranged when he glanced between the eyeball and me, and I felt a little queasy in the particular atmosphere.

I presented the treat to him, but he just looked at me. I stared back. He finally took the spoon, but I was never to expect what he did next. He hit me and I opened my mouth to holler, but he shoved the damned, rotting thing in my mouth. My jaw was still open, and he retracted the spoon and brought his palm up and knocked my jaw close.

The ball squeezed and slowly oozed, what I expected was, maggots into my mouth. Instantly, as I felt them try to worm their way down my throat, I turned and regurgitated. With my hands spread wide to be pillars for my shoulders, I violently emptied myself in that alley corner. The sour stench of the acid and decay had me lurching forward. I freely vomited; I did not want any trace of that thing in my body.

"Oh god!" I cried.

I set myself against the wall and buried my head in my arms, and- as unmanly as one could be- I sobbed. I felt as dirty as the alley and whatever crawled in it, and I couldn't have ran out of there faster.

It was the second time my door man saw me run into the building, and he felt the need to knock of my door an hour after I soaked in scalding water. I was basically _drinking_ the soap and water, and I felt dirty down to the veins that connected my heart.

"Is something the matter?" He asked.

"Completely fine."

He stayed to ask a few more questions before leaving me to wallow in my bed and cry. I begged to the ghost of my late Dutchess, asking why she would send me to that peril. She answered with gentle breezes from my window, and I fell under the blanket of slumber. My dreams festered with horrors of maggots, detached limbs, and blue eyes.


	2. The Beast

A well-dressed business man running away from a small corner was a foolish scene, but I absolutely refused to go within a mile of that boy. I strayed like that quarter of the city was the plague. I traveled the long way around the streets, even if I was a minute or two late, and when walking home I preferred to get mugged than catch a glance of that boy. No more of the doorman having to see me run home, but the quarries of curiosity in his eyes followed my back as I stepped into the lift. I guessed the constancy of looking-back-for-any-attacks wasn't as inconspicuous as I thought.

Months had turned into a year and a half, and I was happy, but Dutchess wasn't as she appeared in my dreams again.

Her frown marred deep into her wrinkly skin, "I held you when the mud coated you like a dense blanket," The words were slow and carefully enounced, "Repay the favor."

She haunted me, and I couldn't shake her, not that I ever wanted her gone. Those same words, carrying the burden that they always issued on me, caught me and strangled the will from my spirit.

The days blurred together with attempt after attempt to at least get a street closer. The aurora of _death _spilling from that alley crawled on the pavement and restricted me from moving. I stood there, frozen. The echo of slurping and grinding sent volts of electricity down my spine, and shattered my bones to dust and I prayed to God for the poor soul that became his next victim.

"I have to go," I chanted, "I have to…"

The light trickle of rain beat softly against the glass of my common room windows, and the air felt moist and dense. I really didn't find the reason why I had to; the idea itself was asking for a heart attack. His tainted appearance, I let get close to me and his filth stuck to me like leeches. My mind wandered to how the boy could've survived in weather conditions like the rain and snow, without a home.

Again, a strike of insanity hit me and I grabbed my coat and umbrella from the threshold, and jogged down the street. The path was painfully familiar and I scolded and hated myself for leaving the warmth of my very expensive apartment to come running for a boy. A dirty, animalistic boy.

But then I stopped, my shoes making wet sounds on the damp ground, and I turned on my heels. I had absolutely no reason why I should even be outside. Reason flooded my mind; I had taken the reoccurrence of a lost love in my dreams too seriously, and I simply acted on impulse. That stuck to me, and it became my bible.

Then, after that night of a taunt revelation, I walked past that alley every day. I glared at the hunched over form, and a few walking pedestrians looked on with approval. I fit in; no more of the supernatural behavior and letting me get carried away with childish beliefs. Dutchess continued to frown, but who needed sleep? I ran on the fuel of the economy, the money, the business, and the industrial growth.

I walked to and from home and work in comfort, and walked with pride in my steps. What was I proud of? I had no clue myself, but I walked with an apple in hand from the closest market, and lazily tossed it. Just as in myself, I was proud of this apple. Out of its siblings, it was the reddest, fattest, and most juicy looking fruit that could have ever fallen off of a tree. I thought Adam and Eve would have been jealous themselves.

The sun was out and children played in the streets, and women and men alike smiled and greeted each other with jubilance radiating off of them—more like oozing through their pores. I took a big bite through the fruit and nearly moaned at the crunchy deliciousness dancing on my taste buds.

To my left, as I was passing the- _you know what_- alley, and something stopped me in my tracks, once again. I looked over, and never in my thirty-five years of living on this planet build on cruelties, had I once cried of pity. This boy, this very poor boy, was huddled in on himself and crying trails that washed away some of the grime on his cheeks. The welts on his back and the purple patches of his skin blended with the frost burning red painted on him.

A grown man; a police offer; a man of the law; paid to do good in this society of crime, was bringing his police stick up, high into the air, and pounding it down onto the poor soul's back. Profanities were tossed and throw at him, and the whimpers and cries were ignored by the bystanders, the onlookers, and my jaw hung agape.

I lunged forward and grabbed the officer's arm, "Stop it!" I shouted.

"Huh," I was easily shooed from his arm and this _very large _man towered (glowered) over me, "Move along, _sir_," He tasted it like acid, "This has no business with you."

"A-Actually," I cursed myself for stuttering, "t-this boy b-belongs to me."

That moment instantly froze in my mind, and I felt a migraine tear apart my membrane, piece from slimy piece. Everyone watching, even the boy, looked at me like I had just grown a set of extra limbs and started screaming in tongues. But no time for stumbling over my own feet, I had to act fast. I was a businessman, and we are brought up to know how to sell our advances.

The officer looked back and then at me, "This filthy thing?"

_Good lord up in heaven and any other beings looking down at my pathetic self, I beg of you, knock some sense into me._

I started, and I was hot on my own heels, "The dirt and mud is from being free! Let the boy be free!"

"He was defiling a corpse!"

Somehow, that did not surprise me.

"Do not insult his ignorance, _he does not know better_. A tragic accident left him useless and a retard; can you not have any pity for his mother?"

I was shocked by my own words. My nerves were numb and I stumbled to strip off my coat and drape it over the boy's shoulders. For once, and I was thinking it would be the first and only, I was grateful for his shrill screams and useless struggles. People parted like a wave to let us through and slowly, but with the hardest glare I could muster, I escorted both of us away from the crowd and through the throng of the city. I left the man and the crowd standing there with open mouths and shock slapped onto their faces.

He stumbled painfully and clung to my arm with sharp nails (claws), and I felt my heart weep at his whimpers. I was then thankful for my doorman for being nosy, and he helped me up to my apartment. Though, the boy did not know my doorman and sensed the need to kick him where it truly hurts for any man. After several apologies, he left with the excuse that my baby cousin got into a bad play accident, and I was left with a big problem on my hands. I had no clue on what to do next with a wild, bleeding boy.

Gently, with soft feather fingers, I lay him on my rug and cringed when I saw the dirt stains smothering on my floor, but those were selfish thoughts.

"Bath," I muttered.

His wounds were leaking onto my floor and I quickly filled the tub with water, warm but not too hot. I rushed to raise him in my arms, with as much care as I could muster, and lowered him into the water. He jolted upwards and grabbed my throat and flung himself out of the water, and the wails and screaming from the contact of the water on the wounds echoed and ricocheted through the entire building.

Just from that slight contact, his arms went wild and misfired with a hard slap to my cheek and I could feel the blood drip onto my chin. The large gulps of air he swallowed choked him and I searched for his eyes. They were running all over the place, making me dizzy, and I finally got him to maintain eye contact. His blue eyes met mine.

"I promise you," I whispered, "everything's alright. I won't hurt you."

I was unsure if he understood, but his screams deflated to whimpering through his bared teeth and digging his nails into my skin, which easily broke under his raw might. Everything softened into a calm atmosphere and the first thing that popped into my mind:

**Clean the Wounds**

Digging through the dirt to get to skin was harder than I had imagined, and he hated me with his eyes as I left his skin red and raw. He refused with all of his might to get in the tub, so I settled for hand washing him with a rag and dipping it in the soapy water. My floor was sopping wet and I had no choice but to rinse him off by dumping water on him. I poured soap on his head and rolled up my sleeves to plow through the bugs and whatever gobble-de-gook built up over the years. After all the back breaking and excessive elbow greasing applying, my bath tub was a swamp. I drained it and gagged at the ruined marble.

Now, the boy sat on a towel in my common room, with my pajama pants on, and his raw back exposed to the crisp night air. I quickly dressed his wounds with the bandages I kept in the kitchen, and I smoothed them over with the palm of my hand. I was generous with the wraps and I continuously slapped away the hands that reached up to tear them away. At least, it was just one hand that clawed at the skin. Something occupied the clutches of his right one, and he held it to his chest like a mother gorilla would carry her baby. Very intimate, very protective and a very clever way to peak someone's curiosity.

I was stationed near my window with the evening glowing in to shed scarlet rays on my furniture and shape out the form on the boy staring up at me. My eyes switched from him to his hand and he hugged his hand closer to his chest. I finally took the courage to crawl down to his level and search through the curtain of over-grown hair to hold him still while I reached up and touched his hand.

In significance, he slowly unfolded his fingers and I broke our eye contact to trail my eyes down to his hand in mine. There, lying blood encrusted and as beautiful as ever . . . was the spoon.

It took my breath away. There was no way of describing for anyone to truly understand, but when he looked at me and gripped at the handle, I could swear he spoke with his eyes. He told me that spoon was precious to him. Even through the harsh times, he kept it throughout the years I had ignored him. I felt something swell in my heart and thicken my throat, and I found myself choking to hold back tears.

The scar on his eye, the bruises on his back, and the malnourished stomach; I had the power to help it all.

Dutchess rang in my ears, _"Life is ugly."_

I saw myself in this boy, and felt like I was Dutchess.

"_Life is ugly, and it bore the people that took you away from your _real_ mother," _I could remember her sitting me down, and the tattered blanket barely keeping my hands warm, _"but you should never wish to stop living."_

For Dutchess, I would do anything. And throughout all of this, and my stubbornness, she knew what was right and I chose the path of ignorance. The feelings overwhelmed and overflowed through my eyes, and I bowed my head forward and touched my forehead to the rug. Little droplets pebbled and gently dampened the color, and I wrapped my arms around my middle. I felt like I really needed a hug.

What was I doing with this unknown boy in my home? Why was I crying in front of him? Why is he holding the last possession of my mother?

My face met the carpet and my chest and legs followed. I let the darkness consume me. Slowly, my vision faded and blurred with the stinging tears, and I fell deep into the recesses of my subconscious.

Down. Below me. Wet eyes. Sun. Sun? Sun strings? No, they were not strings. _Strands. _Strands of sun above his eyes. Sit high and peaked. It was dark, but I was warm. He (maybe it was?) shook like leaves. Look around, find something. Warm.

Deep. _Deeper. _Further down the dark alley with weird things sticking out of the walls. Careful. I sniffed and he was everywhere. It was strong. A vast squishy- uh- _thing_ had his scent soaked in. I poked it and jumped back- you could never be too careful. I reached out- squishy, indeed. It itched me. Pulled it, to the floor with him curled like a baby. I puffed and covered him with the dry squishy, and breathed when he grabbed it in fistfuls and coiled tightly like the itchy things he was wearing. Like the things he made me wear.

The lines in his head disappeared. I thought, _that was good_. He didn't look in pain anymore.

I woke up, but did not open my eyes. There was no source of light burning on my lids and in less than five minutes I was very aware of my surroundings. The delusional thoughts swam and knocked my train of thoughts back and forth, and slowly my nerves sting and roll from my fingers to my toes. I felt something weigh on my chest and my legs, but my arms were tucked under me. I must have rolled in my sleep.

This wasn't my bed I was waking up on; it was too stiff. And a scent of . . . I couldn't name it. Something sour and heavy in the air. It wafted around and struck hard in intervals, but I could not name it. To find the source, I finally decided to open my eyes. I was met with black, black, and more darkness. My eyes fuzzed and crinkled at the edges and I swore I saw some sparks of green and red. I was really hallucinating. How long had I been sleeping?

My eyes were heavy, my arms were heavy, my fingers were heavy, and my neck was like stone. But I instantly was on two feet when I saw a shadow moving at an abnormal speed from the corner of my eye. My eyes washed over and flipped to the back of my head; I stood too fast. I half-fell half-tipped to the nearest wall and smacked my entire torso onto the cool surface, and repelled the want to pound my fist against it. Whatever what was in my apartment, it already was aware of me.

What of the boy?

He was more than likely long gone; eaten or escaped. I did not mind both at the current situation for my head was a frenzy of thoughts and efforts to correct its own self.

My legs had gotten tangled in the thick cotton blanket that was supposed to be at the foot of my bed, but it had found its way on top of me during my sleep. I quickly unwrapped myself and picked up two corners of the blanket. A wild and crazy idea popped into my head: _maybe I could catch the thing and then report it. _But what if it was a wild animal? Carnivorous, at that.

My assumptions ceased when I heard a crash of probably one of my pots falling to the ground, and then a whole chorus of then following it. A loud and wild snarl with a background whine drawled out to make it sound like a dissatisfied cat. A very large cat. I tipped my head and focused so much it hurt my temples, but I saw something pace back and forth and reach to grab something. It brought whatever it grabbed above its head and slammed it hard onto my tile with a resounding _crack!_

Just then, at the moment of life or death, my phone rang.

The fashionable device vibrated on its receiver and I shaped out the ten holes in the round dialer, and the crisp ringing sliced through the air like it was a sharp sword through melted butter.

"Son of a bitch," I curse-whispered.

The ringing ceased and, with all the might I could muster, I looked in the pitch dark crevice of my kitchen and nearly gasped and cried when I saw eyes directed at me. _Blue eyes. _Before I could call anything out, the shadow boasted on its rear legs and bolted across my common room rug faster than I could count. 1, 2 . . . 3!

I brought the edge of the blanket up to my nose and lurched forward with my toes on the bottom edges and felt something hit my stomach. I choked on my saliva and coughed maniacally while keeling over and completely trapping the beast in the fabric. Hissing and spitting- sounding like an alley cat- struggled and beat against the cotton and many of the blows landed either on my gut or my jaw, and I struggled, myself, with keeping any escapes impeccably in vain.

"Stop," I grunted, "struggling."

At the sound of my voice, any and all movements lowered and soon ceased to the occasional but rare soft jab to my chest. When I had determined that it was tired of being suffocated, I slowly eased and unwrapped the thing from the hot cotton and gasped.

It _was _the boy.

He huffed and pawed at his own nose and I saw his chest rise and fall heavily. I was left sitting there with my eyes the size of saucers and looking down at him in the blanket in my lap. But, as soon as he could retain enough oxygen to function, he bucked his head forward and I hollered and howled in scrutinizing pain.

Payback, nonetheless, is a bitch.


	3. Witness Protection

Roxas, that's what I named him. Truth be told, I named him after an advertisement I saw in the year of 1975. Such a good time; the 70's were fun, and I had the personal experience to tell you that seeing yours and a million other people's lives flash in front of you is nowhere near the word _fun _in my dictionary. After witnessing my company fall and crumble, and I, too, fell quite a ways before running through the sewers like a rat, is depressing. And Roxas was there through it all. But, I had my opportunities once again to make my fortune in the late, really late, 2000's. I would say around the year of 2997 is when I was once again at the top of the industries.

But it was about the time of 1990 when I had to give the government credit for noticing me. I did not die before my fortieth birthday. Hell, I look younger than I did when I was at least still _mortal._ Back then, when I had easier problems to solve, I wish I knew what I was about to get myself into.

I looked down and saw his jaws clenched tightly around the loose skin of my hand, and I was too dumbstruck to do anything at first. But when I regained my senses, I ripped my hand away from his mouth and reeled my head back and hissed. The cold burn spiking my nerves and the endearing twitch of my fingers threw me into a state of panic and pain, and I rolled onto my stomach. My hand was sandwiched in between the carpet and my stomach, and the contact worsened the pain and I shriek. At the top of my lungs and ripping at my throat, I hollered.

"Oh god!" I screamed.

I looked down and howled and jumped back and my head cracked against the concrete, but I paid no mind as I gawked at my own hand. _Blue_, that's all I saw as it seeped like a fluid through my veins and I ripped open my sleeve to witness it travel up my arm. Through my shoulder, and I felt my heart stop. Stop, I tell you. _It completely stopped_. I put a hand to my chest; no pulse. I pressed my fingers to every vital spot on my body known to man and still no thumping against the pads of my finger tips.

But I was still breathing, still alive, or at least I knew of it. I felt my blood stop, my body stilled and stiffen, and my lungs pumped, like frail bags they squeezed together, and I collapsed onto my side.

The names Cloud and Roxas Strife- our names- always will be printed in the system as 'special cases'. I had been through the tests; hell and back. They dissected me like a frog and caged me like an animal for the first fifty years of my 1990 to 2040 life, and I had lost more of myself in those metallic walls than I would like to admit. Our first doctor/special-case-scientist was Dr. Sephiroth. To say in the least, I was more than happy to have that old man out of my life.

Like I said before, I look younger than I did all those years ago, before I was curse with the Jenova virus. My second doctor/special-case-scientist was Dr. Dre, and he was a kind man that was patient to explain _everything _to me. From the time I was thirty-seven, now I look like I did back in my twenties, my crow's feet had completely disappeared and my prime stature had return to a strapping young man's figure. Dr. Dre told me, in detail, about the germs running through that little pests' (Roxas's) saliva. They labeled it as 'Jenova' and he told me it was completely responsible for turning me _immortal._

Roxas . . . um- I couldn't really explain the significance of his development. At first, it was like potty training a new puppy and teaching him not to bite people and guests. But from there, he skyrocketed into the teenager he is now still going to high school on the occasional decade. It's to maintain appearance that we are- and I quote- 'normal'. But his speech, his mannerism, his _abilities_; they're all impeccable. It's as if he wasn't brought up to hunt, and like he didn't eat people.

If I can live this long, then I do not want to count how many years he has lived. Dr. Dre humored that he was more than likely the spouse of Eve.

There was a whole research team and S.W.A.T security during the millennium of studying Roxas' entire body system. They shot him in the head, crushed him under tons and tons of lead, and put him under so much radiation any man would have been a pile of ashes. But he rebuilt his memory system, clawed through the heavy material like it was loose soil, and became his own antidote. He was the very definition of superhuman, and harvesting his powers was closer to the impossible like discovering a new Earth.

It all depended on him to discover his own abilities.

I was simply an example of what he could do, and he and I were put under Witness Protection a few decades ago. We travel from town to town, city to city, country from individual country to keep our identities a secret and hide from the clutches of greedy overlords. Do not get me wrong, our country has tried to put us under their thumb for war use, but we've proven of no immediate use. But, it's now a heavy burden on my long dead heart when I see him sad after I tell him we have to move away from his friends.

He sulks and whines and curses the government, and it's usually up to me to shove him in a car before our house is torched. No records, no evidence . . . and no witnesses.

Every time I look up at those flames, though, I think of Dutchess and her last minutes. Everything else in my long life is like a second's blur, but the significant moments with her are as clear as a sunny day. She lays heavy in my dead heart. Heavier than the first hour without her, and I know why. It's because now, I have someone to care for. And, to anyone who wants kids, he is a _big_ handful.

Other handfuls are about knowing government secrets; I have a big mouth. I like to pipe in my opinion once in a while during a conversation and I sometimes let mild secrets slip that aren't mine. But, my point being, I can't let any important or big secrets pass by me.

Like, for instance, it is a fact that mages, witches, sorcerers, magical creatures, and a whole nation of things along those lines exist. I refused to believe them at first, even though I had Roxas, until we met a small family a while ago. A young woman- beautiful, might I add- by the name of Tifa and her adoptive son, Zexion, are a part of the supernatural world. Tifa is not special in any way; she is a normal human. And Zexion is a whopping of sixteen years old, and he and Roxas are long-time, long-distance friends.

The government got involved with them a year after Tifa adopted him, and instantly put them under the same protection. Zexion is a sorcerer, or at least, a sorcerer-in-training. He carries around this big book, _really big book. _I tried to lift it once and almost broke something- the _thing is as big as him!_ - But he picks it up without batting an eyelash and shrinks it to pocket-size. I swear, every time he gives me that smug look, he is silently mocking me. That kid hates me or something.

But he is attached at the hip with Roxas, and in any rare occasions we are within a 50 mile radius, they spend any and all time with each other. If they are lucky, they might even get into the same school.

Long story short, my life is only getting started with the new industrialized millennium of 4000.


End file.
